NutCracker
by Fishy-Bubbles
Summary: Neil has joined the Brumly boys in hope of starting again. To truly be part of the gang though, he has to kill someone. Please R & R, as i suck at summaries.
1. Chapter 1

There was nothing particularly special about my father. He's just an ordinary man. But he had power – so much power – over me. Whenever he became angry his face would go hard and I could see darkness flood his eyes. And when he beat me, it was if he had detached himself, like what he was doing was routine, a process pressed into his brain. No matter how much I pleaded with him to stop, he kept going. I don't think he even knew who he was when he was like that. He certainly didn't know who I was.

I hated my father like that. But he was always angry. It had all happened after Mum had died. There was no longer anyone else to keep him in line, to make him stay who he was. I know that I wasn't enough to stop him from changing, but hell, I tried. I tried so hard to bring him back.

My real name is Neil Cracker. Most people call me Nut-Cracker – Nuttie or Cracker for short. The funny thing is that no one even knew that I existed until Dad became bad. I don't mean the general public, by the way. I mean the street gangs. The greasers and the Brumly boys.

I used to be part of the Socs. But then everything changed, as these things tend to do. Mum died and Dad went pretty loopy. He was always angry; so angry. He had so much rage inside that it hurt me to look at him now.

So one day I decided that I'd had enough and I ran away. I know that that sounds really clichéd and all, but I needed to get away and think. I was already building up a name with the greasers, so I thought that I might be able to fit in OK with the Brumly boys.

And I was right. They saw that I was here to stay and they knew that I had had a rough time at home. They were all for armed fights, and on that first night, the first place they took me was the drug store. It was there that I stole my first blade.

Felt good too. Being part of something. Being part of a gang, a group of people who were both feared and respected. I liked that best. I wasn't too sure about the stealing part – Dad had always taught me the right way of things – but I did it anyway. Just to prove to myself that I could.

That was when I was at my lowest. It felt as if the whole world had turned against me, and I know that there are about a hundred teenagers out there who would say the same, but I was different. There was always something different about me and my situation, because my father never came looking for me.

I had never discussed this with the gang, cause that would be showing that I actually cared. But deep down, I did care. I cared a lot about why my father hadn't even tried to look for me, to hunt me down.

I had cried on the first night. I was 14 years old and I had cried quietly into a worn pillow because I had run away from my father. It was pathetic, and I felt pathetic afterwards.

Now, I'm a lot tougher. I've become one of the gang, but there's still something that separates me from them. I don't want there to be any gap, so that's why I agreed to this.

I'm the only one in the gang who hasn't killed someone yet. Here, it's a badge of honour. I need that badge if I'm to get any further in this life, if I want to survive.

Tomorrow I'm going to kill my first man. I know who it is, I know how I'm going to do it and I know when and where I'm going to do it.

I just don't know why.


	2. Chapter 2

'Do you see his face?' Harry – our leader – pushed his head an inch from mine. 'Look at it,' he snarled, 'because you're gonna remember it for the rest of your life.'

I turned away from him and shivered. Harry had always given me the creeps. I never knew why, he was just one of those people who you never wanted to disappoint. He had become leader just before I joined the gang.

Harry was 18 and all muscle and beef. His was built like a brick shit-house and he smelt like one too. To sum him up, Harry was a hairy, smelly, hunk of a man who had never grown out of a teenage obsession with violence.

I looked at the man that Harry was pointing to. To anyone else, he would have seemed ordinary, no one special. But to me he was different. He looked like me, and the more I looked, the more I realised that I was his mirror image. My stomach jolted, but I made sure that nothing showed on my face.

_Oh shit, _I thought, _I'm about to kill my father._

Harry nudged me with his arm, showed me his glinting teeth and handed me a lethal looking knife.

'You ready?'

Wordlessly, I nodded. I had to do this. I had no choice. Silently, I replayed his words in my head:

'_Do you see his face? Look at it, because you're gonna remember it for the rest of your life.'_

I knew that he was right. The first man that I would kill would be my father. I looked down at my fist clutching the knife. _Concentrate, _I told myself, _focus on the knife. Focus on the theory – you know what to do. _I didn't want to think about what it would feel like – his flesh carving under my hand, his gasping last breaths, his blood spilling onto the pavement.

I didn't want to think about that.

So instead, I stepped out onto the pavement and went to meet my father.

The night went smoothly. He didn't suspect a thing, which was exactly what I had planned. See, I had called him a few days back and asked him if he wanted to meet me.

It had been 2 years since I had seen Dad. He didn't look any different, but there was something in his eyes that wasn't there before. I could tell that he was still on the drink, but I think that it was for a different reason.

Something inside told me that he was drinking to forget me. Did that mean that he was over Mum? I doubt it. Did that mean that my disappearance actually meant something to him? Maybe. Deep down, I really hope so.

The moment he saw me step onto the pavement, his face lit up with joy.

It was then that I knew that I couldn't do it.

I had known from the start that what I had set out to do would be hard. Not physically – I had been prepared for that. It was what they didn't teach me, what I didn't know, that scared me.

They never said anything about this feeling I have now. My stomach is leaping all over the place, and I can feel my palm sweating on the handle of the knife. I can hear my breath coming in short grunts, and I can see my hands shaking. I look down at my hands, my shaking hands. I'm shaking. I can't believe it. Is it because I'm nervous? Maybe I am. No, that's a lie. I _am_ nervous, but it's more.

It's fear. I'm scared of what I'm about to do. I know that I can't go back, that what I'm about to do is irreversible.

This is a way to get back at my father, but was that what I really want?

I don't know anymore. Everything is a jumble in my head; I can't think straight and I can't seem to even see straight. I can see Dad shouting and running towards me. I feel myself drop the knife as my knees thud onto the pavement.

_That's funny, _I think, _why am I on the ground? _Then I can feel myself pitching forwards and landing painfully on my face. I can feel Dad's hands pulling at me, turning me over, and checking me for damage.

My face is wet. I don't know why. I look up at Dad and stare into his eyes. I think that he's a bit unnerved at first. But I haven't seen him for 2 years – 2 whole years – and it's not until now that I realise how much I need him.

I watch as his tears fall onto my face as he holds me. I feel his tears mingle with mine as they run down my cheeks. I remember the last time that I cried. It seems so long ago, but it was for my father then too.

It's only now that I realise that Dad's hand is clutched to my chest. I try to look down, because suddenly it seems very important that I see. I'm starting to feel some pain and I can hear my breath coming in gasps and my mind starting to lose its calm. I start to panic – I want to look at my chest. But Dad won't let me.

I move my head, but Dad grabs it in both of his hands and pushes me back to the ground. The pain is getting worse and I can't speak. I try to ask what's wrong, because I can see the fear in Dad's eyes.

My cheeks feel very wet as Dad puts his hands back onto my chest. I wonder why – was his hands sweating that much? But then I realise; and I know.

My cheeks are smeared with my blood. I can see my face reflected in my own blood on the floor. But how could that have happened? It all becomes too much and I rest my head back. I can't take it, it's all getting to complex for me to handle.

There's a ringing in my ears that wasn't there before. I can feel my strength leaving me as my arms flop down by my sides. I think Dad feels it too, as suddenly his face reappears above mine.

I can see his mouth forming words, but I can't hear him because of this ringing. I close my eyes to try to clear my head, and I can abruptly feel Dad's hands on my face again. I think he thinks that it's all over. That I'm about to die.

Maybe I am. I don't know. I can't think straight anymore, and this is kind of a funny way to die – in my father's arms. It should have been the other way around. I shouldn't be dying; not here, not now.

Something tells me that I should be panicking, that I should be fighting. But suddenly I can't see the point anymore. I've lost complete control of my body and it all seems so peaceful. Just me and Dad. Kinda like the old days.

I smile. I feel Dad's breath on my face as I close my eyes. This is the way I want it to end, for my life to finish. I can't believe that I've accepted this. Deep down, some part of me is wondering why I'm dying when I'm only 16. Surely it shouldn't have been this way. I wonder briefly why there's no one else here.

But there is. My conscious surges again as I remember Harry in the bush.

Was it him who did this to me?

I can't remember. I can't remember anything now; I can't see anything. I have to rely on feel, but even that is fading now.

It's dark and cold. I'm starting to feel scared, but then I feel Dad's arms around me and his breath on my face and I know that it's okay.

I know that it's all okay.


	3. Chapter 3

I open my eyes. 

Light. I can see light. Some part of me is telling me that I shouldn't be able to see anything. Everything should be dark, not lit up with a light that I can't explain. 

The light above me moves, swaying in time with my thought. Then I see the hand, moving the spotlight off my face. Spotlight, _spotlight. _Why would anyone be using a spotlight on me? I try to move, lift my head, anything. I don't feel any response from my body – in fact, I can't feel anything. It seems that the only thing I have control over is my eyelids. 

I want to know what happened to Dad, and to Harry. I'm starting to remember my last memories: of Dad's crying and scared eyes, of a ringing in my ears and the blood smeared on my face. I can remember thinking that I was dying, and of how ironic the situation was. 

The spotlight is back, and, if I listen hard enough, there are voices too. 

"He's ok, Mr Cracker, his eyes are open. That's a good sign!"

The voices are faint. But as distant as they may be, they are there, and I cling to them. 

I hear the scraping of chair legs, as if someone has suddenly collapsed. I wonder who that someone is, but before I can think anymore, a face swims into my limited vision. 

"Hello Neil, how are you feeling?"

I blink up at the unfamiliar face. They smile back at me, and I can read the relief and exhaustion in their eyes. Was that caused by me?

His mouth moves, and I listen to his words carefully. "One blink for no, two blinks for yes. You'll only be able to move your eyes at the moment, so don't panic. The main thing is that you're alive, so we'll focus on that for now."

I blink twice to agree with him, and I receive another wearied laugh from the man with the tired eyes. He starts talking again.

"You're in a hospital, Neil. Do you know why?"

I hesitate, but then close my lids twice. My memories have given me a pretty clear idea of things, and I can't wait to get hold of Harry. I can't think of anyone else who could have done this to me, but I wonder why he did it. But then I remember that I don't know what it is that Harry has done, so I listen closely to the man above me. 

"You were shot, Neil. In the chest, extremely close to your heart. You are very lucky to be breathing right now, and I think that you owe part of that to your father for his fast thinking. Time was of the essence, I can't stress that enough. 

So maybe, when you're better, you'd like to thank him. It's because of your father now that you're here talking to me."

I looked back up at this strange man and wondered if he knew how much he had just changed the way I thought. He must have seen something in my eyes, however, because he hurriedly checked some monitor next to the bed. I began to register some pain in my chest, and I saw the man run out 

to the corridor and yell out something. The next thing I knew, there were lots of people around me, poking me, looking in my eyes, fiddling with things behind them. 

Then someone stabbed me in the arm with a syringe, and I went back to my world of black. 


End file.
